


I Promise

by The_Busy_Beee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hospitalization, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Married Couple, Sherlock is a Good Parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 23:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17334728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Busy_Beee/pseuds/The_Busy_Beee
Summary: When he answers the phone, he expects to hear Rosie complaining about not wanting to go to bed at 9:30 or begging to let her stay up and watch late night television until John gets home."It's Da. There's been an accident."Sherlock was definitely not expecting that.





	I Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!
> 
> I'm back with my second ever Sherlock fic! I wish I wrote for them more often. I have so many ideas, I just always fear I won't do them justice. ^^'
> 
> Anyways:  
> This one was finished in under 24 hours because I just couldn't get it out of my head. 
> 
> This work has been edited, but if there are any mistakes or inconsistencies, please let me know!
> 
> Enjoy! 💕

Racing around busy streets after a murder suspect, dropping off of rooftops to surprise drug dealers, catching thieves in the act; these are some of Sherlock's favorite things. What he does not enjoy, however, is the reports Gavin makes him fill in and sign afterwards.

 

“If you're going to help catch the criminals, you have to fill in the reports as well. You can't just do the “fun stuff”.” He would nag. Sherlock curls his upper lip in disdain as he scribbles his signature on another page. How he wishes John were here to do the paperwork for him, but unfortunately, John was away in Northampton for a doctor's convention. 

 

Sherlock smiles softly at the thought of arriving home in a few hours and finding John; unpacking his luggage, chatting with their daughter. Just being his usual, wonderful self.

 

A sharp trilling in his coat pocket has him sighing as he pulls his mobile out. “Rosie” appears on the screen, accompanied by a photo of a young, cheerful brunette. Sherlock presses the green button before tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder shuffling his papers.

 

“Darling, now isn't really the best-”

 

“Daddy.” Rosie's voice is cracked and watery. She's been crying. Sherlock stills immediately.

 

“What happened?” He demands. Sherlock has always tried to speak softer to her, but at this moment, he knew something was very wrong. Rosie hadn't called him “Daddy” since she was nine.

 

“Daddy, I-” she inhales shakily, “it's Da.”

 

Sherlock stands so quickly the chair topples over. He's out of Lestrade's office and rushing through the crowds of officers before she's begun the next sentence.

 

“There was an accident, I don't know the specifics, the officer, he just- he said Da was-” Rosie breaks off into sobs and Sherlock's heart is racing in his throat. Once he reaches the main hall, Sherlock is sprinting for the front entrance.

 

People are shouting. At him? Maybe. He can't hear them. All he can hear is Rosie sobbing and the words “there was an accident.”

 

As he bursts through the front doors of New Scotland Yard, he forces himself to stop and breathe.

 

“Rosie. Rosamund, I need you to calm down, Love. Breathe for me.” He coaches, trying to calm his own racing heart. When he hears the shuddering breaths over the line, he nods to himself.

 

“Good. That's a good girl. Now tell me, What exactly did they say?” Sherlock strides to the curb and flings a hand out to motion for a taxi. Rosie takes a few more shuddering breaths before beginning again.

 

“There was an accident; a drunk driver. Da's taxi got hit, but they wouldn't give me any details.” She inhales again and Sherlock exhales slowly, measured.

 

“They said he's in hospital, at St. Bart's, but they- they said they couldn't release his medical details to a minor. I- I don't know anything else; they called Mrs. Hudson's phone, and I answered while she was out back- Dad what if he's not okay??” 

 

Sherlock is in the taxi and urging the driver to “ **_Go_ ** .” before the car has even stopped at the curb fully. He gives the driver the destination before inhaling deeply and dropping against the leather seats.

 

“Rosamund Mary, you stop that right now. Your father is the strongest man I know. He's been to war, twice, and always came back. He would never let something as boring as a  _ car crash _ take him.” Sherlock purses his lips, bounces his leg impatiently, tries to keep a solid head. It doesn't matter how terrified he is at the moment, no matter what could be waiting for him at the hospital right now, he needs to reassure Rosie.

 

“I'm on my way to Bart's right now. I need you to stay with Mrs. Hudson tonight, alright? Does she know what's happening? Where is she right now?”

 

“Yes. I'm in her living room. She said I needed comfort cookies, so she's baking right now.” Rosie sniffles and Sherlock would smile if he didn't feel like vomiting.

 

“Good.” He pauses for a moment, “Your father will be alright. I promise.” He murmurs softly. “I’ll call you when I know something, alright?”

 

“Promise?”

 

“I promise.”

 

“I love you. Tell Da I love him.” Sherlock can hear the warble in his voice and has to swallow around a lump in his throat before her can answer.

 

“I love you too.”

 

He ends the call and begins firing off messages. A response to Greg, a request for Molly, and a note for Mycroft.

 

-

From:

_ Lestrade _

 

Is everything alright?? You sped out so quickly I thought you'd seen a ghost. I've finished the paperwork for you. 

 

To: 

_ Lestrade _

 

John was in an accident. Unsure of details. En route to Bart's.

-SH

-

 

To:

_ Molly _

 

There's been an accident.

John is at Bart's. If we're not home by tomorrow evening, please take Rosie to tutoring.

Will call later.

-SH

-

 

To:

_ Mycroft _

 

John is in hospital.

-SH

-

The taxi ride feels like an eternity, when Sherlock knows it was only twenty minutes and the driver went considerably over the speed limit after one look at his frazzled expression. 

 

Before the car can even park, he's shoving a wad of bills through the screen and barreling out. He's sure there's more than a hundred there, but at this point, he can't bring himself to care about anything more than John.

 

Molly is waiting at the front desk for him, and folded and lips curled under her teeth, pacing nervously. When she sees Sherlock, her shoulders drop and she rushes over.

 

“Oh, Sherlock, I was in the morgue when I got your message, I-”

 

“Where is he?” Sherlock demands. Molly pauses before moving a step to the right and motioning to the elevator.

 

“He’s just been moved from the emergency ward to a room on the third floor. They wouldn't give me any more information than that.” Sherlock nods and hurries forward, Molly following quickly behind.

 

“Should I go with you? Is Rosie alright? What should I do, Sherlock?” 

 

Sherlock sighs, irritation getting the best of him as he repeatedly jams the elevator button. He turns to snap at Molly, but catches himself when he actually looks at the younger woman.

 

She looks close to crying, if she hasn't already been. She's wringing her hands together, a nervous habit. Her lab coat is askew and her hair has been tugged and fumbled with enough that it's beginning to fall from the ponytail it's been pulled in to. She had to have been in the middle of something when he texted and immediately went scrambling for information.

 

Sherlock releases a tight breath before forcing a small smile.

 

“Go home and rest.”

 

“But I-!”

 

“Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson, and considering John has been moved to a room rather than the ICU, there should be nothing to worry about.” Sherlock assures her before stepping into the lift.

 

Molly nods, obviously still concerned, but steps back away from the doors. Sherlock presses the three before stepping back into the elevator further.

 

“I'll call you when I know something.” Sherlock says as the doors begin to close. Molly stands and stares at Sherlock until the doors seal completely, and then Sherlock is left staring at his reflection in the metallic elevator door. 

 

His button down is rumpled and untucked, covered in dirt and maybe a little blood from the criminal he helped apprehend not even two hours ago. His trench coat apparently got left at the NSY office, along with his scarf. It's mid-October, but Sherlock didn't feel any of the chill, only the pounding of his heart and the churning of his stomach.

 

“There's nothing to worry about.” He murmurs to himself. Logically speaking, if John is in his own room so soon after being brought in, he's obviously not in dire straights. But, Rosie never specified how long ago the police had called, not to mention how long it might have taken to confirm John's identity, should he be unable to identify himself.

 

Sherlock's mind races a mile a minute, each new thought doing nothing but tightening the knot of anxiety in his stomach. How long does it take to go up two floors??

 

The elevator chimes and Sherlock is squeezing through the gap before it's even opened properly and striding to the nurses stand. A young, redheaded man sits at the reception, clacking away at the desktop computer.

 

“I need the room number for my husband; last name Watson.” Sherlock barks, completely skipping the pleasantries. The boy jerks slightly, startled at the sudden demand.

 

“Beg pardon?” The young man replies as he turns in his seat. Sherlock frowns, irritation growing at having to repeat himself.

 

“The room number. For my husband. John Watson. What is it?” He nearly hisses. He shouldn't be so pissy,  _ he knows _ , but fear and worry are all curling in the pit of his stomach, and it's taking  _ too damned long _ to find out any information at all about John and  _ why _ can't anyone just give him straight information-

 

“Sir?” 

 

Sherlock blinks back to awareness, and the male, Geoffrey, is staring up at him, concerned.

 

“What?” Sherlock blinks.

 

“I said, Mr. Watson has been heavily sedated at this time; he was highly combative but desperately needed treatment. He will probably be unconscious until well into the morning, if you'd rather-”

 

“I would not rather.” Sherlock snaps. “I would have his room number now. I don't care if he's asleep I want-” Sherlock exhales heavily, withdraws his trembling hand from the cool marble countertop. Geoffrey nods understandingly. He motions to the hallway to the left.

 

“He's in room 307. Please try not to disturb the cast.”

 

_ Cast _ . There's a cast on his husband's person.

 

Sherlock nods and walks briskly down the hall to find the correct room. A doctor is just closing the door and Sherlock catches him by the sleeve.

 

“How is he? John Watson?” The doctor raises a brow as he adjusts his clipboard.

 

“You're family?”

 

“He's my husband.” Sherlock assures. The doctor nods before flipping the metal flap open and skimming the pages.

 

“He's stable and healthy. There were no major injuries aside from a broken leg and sprained wrist, plenty of mild lacerations and bruising, however. He was highly combative when he was first brought in; kept insisting the cut on his side didn't need treatment and that “he could walk just fine” and wanted to go home.” The doctor huffs and shakes his head as he closes the clipboard.

 

“We had to sedate him so we could treat his leg and stitch the cut below his rib cage. The effects should wear off overnight and he should be fine in the morning. Definitely in pain, but alive.” The doctor finishes. Sherlock feels himself deflate as he nods and thanks the older man. 

 

Sherlock waits until the grey haired man has stepped into the next room before letting himself into John's room. When he first sees John, his throat feels tight. His eyes are burning with unshed tears.

 

His shoulders sag in relief as he listens to the beeping of the heart monitor and John's familiar breathing in the dim lighting. The doctor said he was fine, he  _ knew _ John would pull through and be alright but he just… he needed to see it for himself.

 

Sherlock moves to the green chair beside John's left side and drops heavily into the chair, sigh of relief leaving him. He tips his head back onto the back of the chair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control of his body. When he feels like he's not going to shake apart at the seams, he sits forward and asesses John's body.

 

The left leg from knee to toe is, indeed, wrapped in a white cast. The right hand has a small, blue wrist brace covering it. John's right cheek is bruised, and he assumes the cut that needed stitches is on the left side. Aside from the minor cuts and bruises, John is in one piece and Sherlock is so grateful. If he believed in religion, he'd be saying a small prayer at the moment.

 

But since he doesn't, he simply holds John's left hand in both of his and presses his forehead to the cold, silver band on John's third finger. For once, he wishes he had worn his ring as well today, but he didn't want to chance it being lost during the chase.

 

“You absolute idiot.” He breathes to the room, “Do you know how worried you had me?” He stares at John's sleeping face and frowns.

 

“You can't keep doing this to me; my heart will stop one of these days.” 

 

“You're one to talk. Which one of us stands in front of bullets?" John mumbles, mouth heavy and  eyes still closed. Sherlock moves his left hand to gently run his fingers through John's greying hair.

 

“You're supposed to be sleeping, John. Don't wake up while I'm being sentimental.” Sherlock playfully chides. John smiles softly and squeezes Sherlock's hand.

 

“You think I'm going to miss you being sentimental? Never.” John murmurs. He manages to open his eyes for a moment, but they fall closed again nearly immediately. Sherlock rolls his eyes fondly as he places a kiss on the back of John's hand.

 

“Just sleep, you arse. You're heavily medicated.” John squeezes his hand once more and Sherlock cups John's cheek with his right hand. “I'll still be here in the morning.” He reassures John softly.

 

John doesn't say anything more, but his body begins to relax again, and within moments, he's dead weight against the bed sheets. Sherlock sighs once more, lips curling up slightly before laying his head on John's chest and closing his eyes. 

 

In a matter of minutes, Sherlock is asleep; John's steady heat beat in his ear and John's hand tight in his. 

 

\---

 

Sherlock wakes to the feeling of fingers combing through his hair and hums softly. He cracks one eye open and finds the wall clock; just after seven am. The sun is beginning to filter in through the white curtains as Sherlock lifts his head from the firmness that is John's chest. 

 

He hisses as he rolls his neck, trying to work out the pain of having slept in one position for too long. A blanket slips off his shoulders as he licks his dry lips and looks up at John. The older man is awake, but still looks exhausted.

 

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks softly. John frowns.

 

“Like I've been hit by a car.” 

 

“I wonder why.” Sherlock deadpans. John's lip curls up in a small smile before drawing down into a pained scowl once more. Sherlock stands, dropping the blanket into the chair behind him, and moves to the door.

 

“Don't move. I'll get a nurse.”

 

Before John can try to talk him out of it, Sherlock is striding to the nurses station. Geoff has been replaced by a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a kind smile.

 

“Good morning, Dear. How's your neck?” She asks cheerfully. Sherlock knows immediately that she's the one who placed the thick white blanket over him.

 

“It's alright; a little stiff, but I'll manage. My husband, on the other hand…” he lets his sentence trail off and the woman nods in understanding as she pushes to her feet.

 

“He's awake then? Good, good. I'll go push a few CCs of pain medicine and send for a breakfast tray. He'll probably be starving. And you'll be eating as well, right?”

 

She gives Sherlock a firm stare, only moving from her position once Sherlock has nodded. 

 

“Good, good. There's fresh coffee in the waiting area if you need it, Dear.” She calls as she moves towards John's room. Sherlock huffs a laugh as he shakes his head and heads for the restroom. She was just as stubborn as Mrs. Hudson.

 

With a groan, he drops his forehead against the bathroom door.

 

Mrs. Hudson.

 

He'd forgotten to call Rosie last night. 

 

After a quick bathroom trip, Sherlock stands in the waiting area, sipping a cup of tea and waiting for Rosie to pick up the phone.

 

“Hello?” A sleepy voice answers.

 

“Your Dad is alright. He's awake now, but in a good deal of pain.” Sherlock gets straight to it, hoping to avoid her angry scolding for not calling  _ hours _ ago.

 

The fourteen years old yawns loudly, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes fondly.

 

“That's good. Uncle Myc called me last night to tell me everything. He said you were asleep.” Rosie replies. Sherlock frowns at the wall across from him.

 

“He did, did he?” Rosie hums and Sherlock hears the rustle of blankets.

 

“Mmhm. Mr. Lestrade brought your coat home, and a box of Da's favorite candies.” Sherlock's frown falls away as he sighs softly.

 

“I'll call him and thank him, then.” Another yawn interrupts the man and he snorts. “Get some more sleep, Rosamund. I'll call again later.” 

 

“Promise?” Rosie sounds halfway there already. 

 

“Promise.” 

 

“I love you, Dad.” Rosie murmurs sleepily. Sherlock smiles softly.

 

“I love you too.”

 

\---

 

“I'm telling you, I'm more than fine to be released today. It's just a broken leg-”

 

“You're not being released today and that's final.” Nurse Alma states as she adjusts the height of the side table before placing John's breakfast tray on it. The man frowns grumpily before turning to his husband.

 

“You've nothing to say??” Sherlock looks up from his phone at John, then to the stern face of the nurse and back once more. He shrugs.

 

“You'd taken today off work anyways. Might as well spend it somewhere with good drugs.” 

 

John's head thunks against the pillows in defeat and Nurse Alma smiles triumphantly before uncovering the tray on John's lap.

 

“There's double everything, so there should be plenty for  _ both _ of you.” She gives Sherlock a pointed look and Sherlock wonders, not for the first time today, how she knows as much as she seems to know. 

 

“I'll be back by in a few hours. If you need anything before then, you know where the buttons to call me are.” Nurse Alma leaves with a smile and a snick of the door, and finally they're alone.

 

Sherlock stares at John; John stares at the ceiling. After a couple moments pass with no movement of sound, John sighs heavily and turns to Sherlock.

 

“I'm alright, Sherlock. I promise.” He speaks softly.

 

Sherlock knows. He knows John is fine, and there's nothing to worry about. It's just a small break, and only a few stitches, but it could have been so much worse. Mycroft had called that morning to inform him that the driver of the other car had died immediately. The driver of the taxi John had been riding in had needed emergency surgery and was now in the ICU.

 

That could have been John. 

 

John could have been dead, or grievously injured. Sherlock finds John's hand in the bedsheets and gives it a tight squeeze.

 

“I know.” He replies just as soft. 

 

No more words are needed as Sherlock releases John's hand and begins cutting up the sausage and eggs on the plate. Sherlock feeds John, even as the older man insists that he can do it himself, and insists on staying right by John's side all day.

 

And as much as the shorter man protested, he couldn't deny how good it felt to fall asleep after breakfast with Sherlock's hand in his.


End file.
